But Thou Shalt Not Forget
by Mona
Summary: Rated T for violence and offscreen death. Fillmore reflects on life before the Safety Patrol.


"But Thou Shalt Not Forget"

An original Fillmore fanfic by Mona

Disclaimer: All characters from Fillmore © Disney

_I took the toothpick from my mouth and held it between two fingers – the way an experienced smoker holds a cigarette. I carelessly tossed it aside._

_My prey came into in sight. By her locker, putting things in her backpack. I could see the contents inside, neat and organized._

_We were alone in the building. I had waited until she got out of class and followed her. She spent a few hours in the library, and I figured she was about to go home. Did she knowI was following her? Probably not._

_My hand landed on her shoulder. She tensed up. She knew it was me. I could imagine her blood running cold, or the hairs on the back of her neck standing up._

_"Leave me alone," she murmured. "Go away."_

_"Sweetheart, I wait three hours for you, and this is the way you welcome me?"_

_She turned around. Her had turned was pale, but her mouth was a thin, firm line. "I'm serious."_

_My fist connected solidly with her jaw. She staggered back into the metal lockers. Blood splattered on my shirt and her blouse._

_Her hands flew to her chin. Blood oozed between her fingers. I could see her eyes getting shiny._

_"Charlotte, baby, don't make this any more difficult for yourself."_

_"I'm sick of this cat and mouse game, Fillmore. I have nothing more to give you. Not even my dignity."_

_"I'll give you dignity." I walloped her in the stomach. She doubled over. I landed a blow to her cheek with my right fist, the left hitting her nose. Blood flowed from her nostrils. A mixture of saliva and blood dripped from her mouth to the black and white tiled floor._

_Charlotte began to cry. She pointed to her backpack. "Take whatever you want."_

_"You give up too easily, rag doll." I reached my hand towards her ear. "Penny's always wanted a pair of diamond earrings." I yanked hard. Her diamond-encrusted hoop ripped through the cartilage, letting out drops of blood._

_She let out a howl of pain._

_"Scream all you want, sugar bear. The school is empty, except for Raycliffe. And he's clear on the other side of the building."_

_I pulled out the other earring._

_Charlotte let out a whimper. "Those were Grandma's!"_

_I slapped her across the cheek. "You said, 'take anything.' Shame on you, going back on your word!" I undid the strap to her Mickey Mouse watch and put it on. The watch struck six. It played the "Mickey Mouse March."_

_I began to rummage through her backpack. A paperback library book. "Sylvia Plath's 'The Bell Jar.' Dog. Look how tiny the print is." I ripped out a few pages, relishing Charlotte's reactionary gasp. My next find was a notebook. I opened it to the first page. Math homework. I tore out the page, folded it, and wiped it across Charlotte's bloodstained face. I found a locked diary, which I tossed it aside. Next was a small purse containing a mirror, a coin purse, a roll of mints, a blister pack of aspirin, and a pack of tissues. My face was reflected in the mirror. In disgust, I threw it down. Charlotte attempted to stand up, clutching her stomach. I snatched a glass shard from the floor andstabbed it into her right cheek._

_Charlotte let out a wail of misery. I pulled out the last thing from her knapsack – a purple folder. I opened it, and found some drawings. Very fanciful drawings – landscapes, unicorns, fairies, angels. Each had been lovingly drawn and colored in. Charlotte had an eye for detail. She was no Thomas Kinkade, but she had spent some time and effort. I took several in my hands and ripped them. She was so easy. Her dreams were tangible, and I could turn them into confetti without even thinking about it._

_The last drawing was a pencil sketch of the World's Lord and Creator, Walter Elias Disney. Anger bubbled in me, and I tore the paper._

_Her eyes were wide. "Oh, Walt…"_

_"What? Are you calling me sacrilegious?" I let the shreds flutter to the ground. "If he did exist, wouldn't he protect you from me?"_

_Any vestiges of rebellion faded. Charlotte was officially broken. "What crime did I commit to earn this?" She curled into the fetal position. I spat on her, the glop landing on her left cheek with a disgusting splat._

_I took in how she lay on the floor, trembling. Afraid to make a move, or even breathe. Her white shirt ruined with red stains, white dust from the floor clinging to her black pants. Red, black, and white. The school colors. I considered tying her to the flagpole, but I didn't have a rope."This will be our secret, little angel." I kicked her in the stomach. "Won't it? Because I'll know if you squeal." No answer. I kicked her again, higher – toward the ribs._

_"I won't tell." Charlotte sniffled. The tears continued to run down her cheeks, thinning the blood from the cut._

_I turned away from her, or what was left of her. As I walked away, my elation subsided. I had victimized Charlotte and many others before, but never to this magnitude. I knew I couldn't top what I had just done. Didn't even want to. Regret seeped into me. The pungency of my reflection in the mirror returned. My knuckles ached. I was glad my glasses hid my eyes, because I knew they were dull and pitiless underneath._

I had met Charlotte two months before, when the school year started. We only had one class together: basic cooking. Otherwise, no schedule overlap. I was a sixth grader and she was an eighth grader. But outside of class, I'd see her in the halls. She had a calm, trusting smile. Her big eyes were curious and observant. Her cheeks had this natural redness that no rouge could replicate. She stuck out because she was always alone. She was a transfer, and friends are nearly impossible to make for new students. X Middle School has cliques, but she didn't fit in any of them. She wasn't a jock, a cheerleader, a geek, or a hood. She was smart, but not 'special' enough to be in the gifted program.

She was the perfect target.

It started slow, like a small earthquake. A couple taunts in the hall, a few scribbled notes in her locker. It progressed to stealing her money and throwing rocks at her on the playground. She stopped smiling. The rose in her cheeks faded. She looked down a lot more. Her step became a trudge. I kept hammering at her, squirting her with formaldehyde, sending her a box of tainted chocolates, pouring ice-cold soda down her shirt, burning her with hot grease. It finally snowballed into this…horror.

Apparently, after I left, Charlotte picked up a piece of the broken mirror and cut open her leg. She bled to death on the floor. A janitor found her. The last entry of the diary was her suicide letter. The rest of the diary was a long record of how school was a daily nightmare. Her parents reprinted the final letter and pages of her diary in the local newspaper. I had never read such desperation, loneliness, fear, and defeat. Charlotte killed her corporeal self that cold afternoon in November, but her spiritual self had been dying a long time.

There was no mention of her death in the school paper. Folsom declared that anyone who mentioned Charlotte's name or the circumstances surrounding her death would get detention. Folsom's Official Position on Bullying? It does not exist at X Middle School. So Charlotte Cervantes no longer existed.

When I was little, my grandfather used to sit me on his knee and tell stories. Ghost stories. Suicide was shameful, and suicide victims were undeserving of burial or remembrance, so in the stories, the ghosts of suicide victims were the most miserable and wretched. I don't believe those stories, as fun as they were to hear. Charlotte has to be safe and happy wherever she is. She deserves it.

I hate going through that hall. Sometimes I'll still smell the blood. Ever seen those crime dramas, where they put phenophthalein on something and if it changes color, blood's been there? No matter how clean the surface looks, there's still enough blood to trigger the reaction. Blood never comes out of anything, believe me. I tried to wash out the shirt I wore that day, but that stain wouldn't come out. I put it in the wash cycle four times, but the stain was stuck. The blood dried up and turned brown, but wouldn't fade. I gave up and tossed the shirt in the rag pile.

I've gone to so many school counselors. Never even bothered to remember their names. All of them asked why I did such horrible things. Truth was, they didn't give me pleasure. My dad's job constantly made us move. After three moves in a single year, I gave up trying to make new friends and establish a new life. For making my life lonely and miserable, I decided to make my parents' lives miserable. Then I decided if I couldn't be happy, neither could my fellow students. But then Charlotte happened. It sobered me on bullying for good. I still stole things, cut class, backtalked, and stole Turk's toupee, but my heart wasn't in it anymore. I got sloppy, and got myself busted by the sixth grade's number one goody-goody, Wayne Legitt. Sonny had given Wayne a series of unflattering names: Saint Wayne, Brother Wayne, Sheriff Wayne.

I didn't look forward to sitting in the detention room. It was reminiscent of an insane asylum. Everything sterile white. The words THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU'VE DONE painted in big black letters on the wall. I didn't need that to think about Charlotte – she haunted my mind almost daily. It was her posthumous revenge. Just as she dreaded seeing me approach, I dreaded every time my mind turned to her.

I had a nightmare about it the night before I got caught. I was standing in some field, and a shadow passed over me. I turned and it was Walt Disney himself, carrying Charlotte in his arms. Charlotte was still, and dead. The white dress she had on made her look even paler than she did in life. A tear the size of a pearl ran down her left cheek. "Look at your handiwork, Cornelius," Walt said in a dark, booming voice. As I watched, the line on Charlotte's cheek – where I cut her with the glass – began to bleed. And that's when I woke up, gasping for air. I know it's silly to be frightenedby a dream. For one thing, corpses don't bleed. Or cry. Charlotte's dead, and so is Walt. But it just felt so real, you know? To tell the truth, I was afraid that afternoon. Except someone showed me the mercy I had denied Charlotte.

_"I've seen your record," Wayne said. "It's a miracle you haven't been expelled yet. I saw your old school records, too. Everywhere you go, you leave a trail of blood. I can't tell if it's a cry for help, or if you were just…just…"_

_"Born bad?" I supplied._

_"Nobody's born bad. People make bad choices. Like the ones that got you in trouble."_

_"Are you going to give me detention or a lecture? Because I'll only settle for one, Saint Maybe."_

_He looked slightly hurt, but continued. "I'm giving you a choice. You can change. If you don't, do you have any idea what will happen to you? Ten grade dropout Gang recruitment. You know what the average lifespan of a gang member is? Twenty five years! And your fellow gang members have a thousand other thugs to take your place."_

_"From what I've seen, life isn't all that great anyway."_

_"If life isn't so good, how about rotting in jail for ten years? Twenty? Thirty?"_

_"They've got TV, three meals a day, and my parents locked out. Sounds great to me."_

_"So you'd rather just keep on hurting people? And hurting yourself? If you want detention the rest of your school career, be my guest. But if you want to be more than a petty thug, you could help me close a few cases with the Safety Patrol."_

_My jaw dropped. Here was Mister Most Likely to Join a Monastery, offering to let me do Safety Patrol work? "Why would you help scum like me?"_

_He finally sat down. "You really want to know?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Does the name Charlotte Cervantes sound familiar? She was a student here. Bullied so badly that she took her own life. The Safety Patrol did nothing to help her. I went to the funeral, even though Junior Commissioner Dewey told me not to." Wayne sniffled and wiped his nose with a handkerchief. "She looked so beautiful and perfect, even in death. Like a sleeping princess in wait for her prince. I just wish I could have been that prince and rescued her."_

_"You sound like you were in love with her."_

_"I wouldn't go that far. I did meet her a few times. Her sweetness impressed me. Haven't you ever admired a pretty girl?"_

_I shrugged. "But Charlotte Cervantes? Pretty?" She didn't look pretty when I was done with her. The mortician her parents hired must have done a good job._

_"So you did know her?" Wayne asked._

_I coughed. "Partially. Why bring her up?" Sweat broke on my forehead. My head began to pound. He knows I did it. He knows I beat poor Charlotte half to death. He's just waiting until I screw up and then it'll be over…_

_"You look a little sick. I'm sorry to bring up such a grisly topic." Wayne passed me a glass of water._

_My sense of impeding doom subsided. Nevertheless, I stuck my hands under the table to hide the bruises on my knuckles._

_Wayne continued. "You wanted to know why I'd help you. After Charlotte died, I spoke with her parents. I tried to comfort them, but what could I do? Nothing is going to ease their pain, except maybe time. So I made a promise. I swore on Walt's grave that I'd make sure it doesn't happen again. And that starts with keeping bullies like you out of the halls. If my decisions impact you enough to prevent you from dying in some gutter, I'll help 'scum like you.'"_

_If I didn't help, I'd be in and out of suspension and detention. If I did, I might not get myself killed in a gang fight. He'd saved my life. I looked at Wayne, expecting to see a gold halo over his head._

I saw the encounter for what it was. A second chance. After the first few cases, I felt alive again. My grades started to go up. My dad finally got a promotion, so I didn't even have to worry about my family leaving for another ten years.

I reached into my closet and opened a box. Inside were my spoils – the earrings and watch I had stolen from Charlotte. I never gave the earrings to Penny. Why keep them, the souvenirs of the lowest moment of my life? It was a funny thing, really. I tossed them in a wastebasket, but something beckoned me to fish them out. I tried throwing them into a stream, but couldn't. I could get some money if I pawned them – the watch was $39 at any department store, but the earrings looked antique. I could tell the diamonds and gold were real. But profiting off my victim would be wrong. It was a ridiculous idea, but I felt like Charlotte wanted them back. I knew her family wanted them back. Not just the jewelry. They wanted her back.

Well, I couldn't raise the dead, but I could return the jewelry. Except I couldn't bring myself to go to her house and ring the bell. I knew where she lived, but the last time I visited, her dad chased me out of the yard wielding a six-gun. I decided a visit to the next best thing would have to do: the cemetery.

It took me an hour or so to find Charlotte's grave, but I got there eventually. I swallowed a bit as it stared up at me, marble headstone, green grass, flowers, and all.

My throat tightened as I read the engraving:

Charlotte Maria Cervantes

January 5, 1989 – November 12, 2002.

A beautiful flower withered by a cruel frost.

I laid down the box. "Why'd you do it, Charlotte? There were people who loved you. Another few months and it'd have been over. Because middle school ends for everybody. And now it's all over for you. If I had known how desperate you were, I'd have stopped. Forgive me. I'll never be the way I was again. I promise."

I heard the crunching of the gravel path and ducked behind the nearest walnut tree.

Mr. Cervantes – Charlotte's dad! – approached the grave, carrying a bouquet of daisies. My heart pounded. If I ran, I feared he'd hear the footsteps. So I stood there, watching.

Mr. Cervantes laid down the flowers. He noticed my offering and reached for it. Upon opening it, he began to tremble. He was a huge man, easily six foot four. Built like a football player. Constant frowning over the years had given him a perpetual scowl. I could hear him rasp out "I love you, Lottie. I will find out who did this! I'll get them all! Oh, Walt, how could you permit this to happen?" He was crying. It never seemed to end. The old Fillmore would have just laughed to see such a tough guy cry, but I felt my heart breaking. I waited until he vanished into the mist and let out my breath.

To this day, Wayne doesn't know my involvement in Charlotte's death. Neither do my parents. If I ever told them, they'll lose all their faith in me.

The End.


End file.
